


No Man's Land

by racheesi



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, almost sort of underage-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 05:38:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/racheesi/pseuds/racheesi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One take on how Agents Barton and Romanoff met, and how the Black Widow came to work for SHIELD.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Man's Land

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for my roleplay account.

_Paris._ Natalia sniffed in disdain. She was never fond of the city. Full of nostalgia and lovebirds and people with too many hopes and dreams it was almost palpable. The stench of the bleeding hearts made her stomach churn. But she had a job to do. A job that was paying her very well. Find Maxim Owczarczak, a shady Polish diplomat who was in Paris throwing a giant birthday bash for his 16 year-old daughter, get the name of his weapons dealer, then take him out. He wasn’t in the town for very long so Natalia had managed to find an invitation to the exclusive party. She was out around town, conspicuously running recon on the building and the surrounding areas, making sure everything was secure when she noticed him.  
He was pretty far away most of the time, but she knew a tail when she saw one. Fuck. She didn’t want to have to deal with another wanna-be assassin looking to overthrow the infamous Black Widow. He was pretty good. Not as good as her, but he was pretty good. It took her longer than she’d like to spot him. A flash of brown hair here, a glimpse of attentive grey eyes there, a weapon hidden on him that was too concealed for anything else, something that no one but another professional would pick up on. She didn’t know his game, so she carefully continued on her way, completing all of the necessary tasks while watching her back for this new nuisance.

She spent the rest of the afternoon in her secure hotel room, getting ready for the evening. Wearing a conservative, but appealing evening gown. Enough to make her look delectable without attracting undue attention to herself. She carefully placed a stash of weapons on her person, but she couldn’t shake the idea that the brown-haired, grey-eyed man was still watching her. She set her jaw and continued on her task, aware enough to save her ass if she needed to, carefully stepping out of range of any short or long-range weaponry whenever she was exposed.

After finally arriving at the party, Natalia (under the guise of heiress Nicolette Niveau) patiently waited out the situation, finding the opportune time to get Owczarczak alone. After an hour or so, she heard a rumbling baritone in a well-practiced, but detectible false French accent behind her “De danser?” (‘Care to dance? ‘). She turned, ready to politely decline when she found herself face to face with the brown-haired, grey-eyed man. His hair was lighter than she had originally thought, almost a dark blonde, and his eyes were piercing. Her own eyes flashed dangerously in recognition and the corners of his mouth quirked upward in acknowledgement. He still held out his hand, as if to ask her to dance, raising his eyebrows in challenge. She sent a subtle glance back to Owczarczak, but he was still in deep conversation with a group of French businessmen. Never one to back down from a challenge, Natalia took his hand and let him lead her to the dance floor.

The man was a competent dancer, his lean muscles filled out his suit nicely and she was sure he had just as many weapons hidden on him as she did. Tricks of the trade. “Américaine?” (‘American? ‘) she asked fluently, placing the traces of his native tongue behind the forced French, “Une raison quelconque vous n’avez pas pris un coup encore?” (‘Any reason you haven’t taken a shot yet? ‘) Natalia was never one to beat around the bush. He was here to kill her. There wasn’t any reason to pretend otherwise.

The man gave a knowing smirk as he replied, “Je suis à la recherche d’une raison. Je n’aime pas faire une scène.” (‘I am looking for a reason. I don’t like to make a scene.’). She was slightly taken aback by this. A reason? What was this, an assassin with a conscience? He wouldn’t last long in the field. She was sure she had enough reasons to put a bullet in her immediately. Hell, she had enough reasons when she was 13, but she merely nodded in acceptance. She saw, from the corner of her eye, Owczarczak was finishing up his conversation. Now was her time. The music had morphed into a slow, sensual salsa and she used the tune to move closer to the American (she hadn’t yet placed him. FBI? CIA?) sensuously. She slid her hands beneath his jacket as she hooked a leg around his waist. He played along nicely, sliding his hand distractedly up her thigh, just under her holster where she had a knife. She worked his own knife free with the heel of her foot, just barely hearing it clatter to the ground as her hand found a small semi-automatic that she expertly disarmed with one hand in a matter of seconds. She smirked and pulled the man in for a heated kiss, and, just as she felt his body respond, she stepped away. She knew he had more weapons on him, but this would keep him distracted long enough. She smirked and sauntered away.

It took a matter of seconds for her to convince Owczarczak to follow her to a more private setting. The lonely widower was all too easy to play right into her hand. In just under 3 minutes, Natalia had him tied to a chair and blurting out the name of every weapons dealer he’d ever worked with. She mentally filed away the names efficiently and moved behind the man to snap his neck. She could have used any of her weapons, but this was a cleaner death. Less mess. Just as she secured a hand under his chin, she heard him whimper, “Powiedz moja mała Anja … powiedz jej, że jej ojciec ją kocha. Nie krzywdź jej. Proszę.” (‘Tell my little Anja… tell her that her father loves her. Don’t hurt her. Please.’) Natalia took pause. This was new. The man, not begging for his own life, but for the life of his child. In her moment of weak hesitation, the door slammed open and the American stepped through the door. She quickly moved to defend herself, pulling her knife from her thigh holster and holding it out in front of her. Clint moved toward her, causing her to step back further, his own hand grasping a short, sharp blade. He used her distraction to efficiently slice Owczarczak free. “Idź.” (‘Go.’) he growled sharply to the man, who wasted no time in running out of the door. As the wooden door swung shut behind the terrified diplomat, Clint turned his attention to Natalia.

The fight was challenging, to say the least. Natalia had been trained by some of the best, but this American was very skilled. Within minutes they had each other completely disarmed. Her dress was torn in a number of places that weren’t decent, and he had a dark bruise blossoming on his cheek from a particularly well-placed hit from her elbow. They knew it was a matter of time before the police arrived, but neither was willing to let the other go. The American lunged for her again, and she swung her legs out to bring him down to the ground. Unfortunately, her left heel broke off and she tumbled down next to him. Before she could gather herself, the American had her pinned to the ground, holding down her wrists, his legs over hers. She may be strong, but he had more bulk than her, and no matter how much she struggled, she knew there was no way she’d wriggle free. She hissed as she felt the cold blade of a knife press up against her throat. A quick glance down showed that it was her own knife, likely picked up from the floor in the struggle.

“Сделайте это.” (‘Do it.’) she spat angrily, glaring up at the man challengingly.

“Why didn’t you kill him?” the man asked in English, throwing away all pretenses of French. He obviously knew enough about her to know her gift with languages, that she could speak just about anything he could throw at her. Natalia glared at him, jaw set. She didn’t have to answer to this глупец (fool). He pressed the knife closer and she knew the serious look in his eyes. He was ready to kill her. She needed to get out of this. She learned a long time ago that nothing threw someone off like actually hearing the truth. “Он не просят за свою жизнь. Он попросил для своей дочери.” (‘He didn’t beg for his life. He begged for his daughter.’) She saw the surprise flash in his eyes, but he didn’t loosen his grip. Damn.

“You know, we didn’t have a lot of the basic information on you in our file,” he mused, as if he didn’t have 110 pounds of angry Russian assassin practically spitting fire beneath him, “How old are you anyway, Princess?”

Natalia glared up at him again, not intending to answer. She had questions of her own, and she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of an answer. “Кто вы? Кем вы работаете?” (‘Who are you? Who do you work for? ‘) she hissed, still trying to wriggle free beneath him, growling as she only felt his grip tighten and the knife push harder against her neck. She felt a small, warm trickle of blood work its way down her throat. Just a scratch, but enough to let her know he was serious.

“Answer me first, Princess, then I might tell you.” the American said flippantly, almost bored with her fight. She gave him an incredulous look. As if she could really trust him to answer her if she gave him what he wanted. He seemed to read her train of thought easily as he continued, “Not that you have much of a choice. I’ve got you pinned down pretty damn cozy here and this knife on your jugular. You don’t have much of a choice, Sweetheart. Just tell me how old you are.”

“Семнадцать.” (‘Seventeen.’) she hissed. Now this gave the man pause. She barely had time to register the shock in his eyes, and the look of a quick decision. So, death it was. She looked him in the eye, not wanting to be a coward, even in death, but he quickly moved his hand back, replacing her knife with something else in his pocket.

“Fuck, you’re just a kid.” he breathed and a new fire lit under her. She’d been killing for years. She was the best in the world. She wasn’t some kid. She was the Black Widow. She let out a string of curses in damn near every language she knew, insulting everything from his country, to his face, to his parentage. His amused smirk only served to enrage her further.

“Agent Clint Barton, Princess. From S.H.I.E.L.D.” was the last thing Natalia heard before she felt the needle press into her neck and the world went black, cutting off her scream of rage.

—————————————————————————

When Natalia came to, she was in some sort of flat, hard, uncomfortable cot, cuffed to the rails. Her eyes were still closed against the pounding headache, likely from whatever Agent Barton injected her with. She internally scoffed. They’d have to do better than handcuffs to keep her contained. She heard footsteps approach and she kept her eyes closed, consciously relaxing her body so as to appear asleep.

“This is her?” she heard a new voice, low and gruff. An older man. American. “She’s little.”

“She packs a punch, sir,” came a quick reply. Barton, she placed the voice immediately. She bit back her initial reaction of pure, white-hot anger at the man to continue pretending to sleep.

“Your orders were to terminate on sight, Barton.”

“Yes, sir, but I think she’d be more of an asset.”

“She’s got a higher body count that even you.”

“Yeah and she’s only a kid. Seventeen. And she’s got a conscience.”

“Doubtful, Barton. You’ve seen her work.”

“With all due respect, Director, you haven’t seen her work first hand. She’s an artist. Brilliant. She’s got a conscience. She didn’t kill Owczarczak when he begged her to spare his daughter. The Red Room… I don’t think they completely beat that out of her.”

Natalia internally frowned. Why was this agent, who she was ready to kill without hesitation, standing up for her? Did he want a favor from her later? Natalia hated owing debts. She already had too much to make up for. Too much spilled blood. She didn’t need to owe this fool for saving her life. After a few moments, the other man spoke up again.  
“If this goes south, it’s on your ass, Hawkeye,” the man said curtly, “You’re dismissed.”

“Sir, if its all the same I’d like to stay-“

“Agent Barton, you are dismissed.” the man said with a tone that left no room for argument. Director. He must be the man in charge of S.H.I.E.L.D. “You can stop pretending to sleep, Miss Romanova.”

Natalia frowned as her hands tensed into fists and she blinked her eyes open. The man, this Director, looked as intimidating as he sounded. An imposing man, with dark skin, a set jaw, and an eye patch covering an eye, he was the kind of person that you didn’t want to argue with, especially if you were in a position like, say, drugged and handcuffed to a bed.  
“My agent seems to think that I should offer you a position at S.H.I.E.L.D.” he started and Natalia bit back a snarl. She didn’t know much about this organization, only that they were efficient, and kept very much under the radar. She was hesitant, however, to let an organization control her again. She had her own terms, her own code. She wasn’t about to let someone make her decisions for her again. Especially someone who didn’t seem to want her there in the first place.

“And I must say, I’m inclined to agree.” he continued, and Natalia couldn’t help but stare at him openly. She saved herself the embarrassment and closed her open mouth and just waited silently for him to continue.

“We can give you a fresh start. New name, new country. You’d be killing less, but even when you do, its for better people.” Natalia scoffed as he spoke. Everyone thought they were the better person. Killing for the better of something. It was all a matter of perspective. Though, she had to admit, a fresh start sounded appealing.

“What’s the catch?” she asked, this time granting the man a reply in English, rather than spitting her native tongue at him.

“You’d be on probation. For a very long time. Until we can trust you. We’ll assign you a partner and do whatever we have to in order to reverse some of the brainwashing the Red Room has been known to employ. That won’t be as difficult as, according to our records, you’ve been free of them for around a year. Correct?” at her nodded assent, he continued, “You’d be treading on very thin ice, Miss Romanova. One slip and we won’t hesitate to find someone else who can finish the job Agent Barton was assigned.”

She nodded again and the man approached her bed, keeping her cuffed, but looking at her as though he could see through her. It made her nervous. “Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., Natasha Romanoff.”


End file.
